Genur.art

deathguard, plaguemarine. A rotted juggernaut stomps through the black mire of a ruined trench, dragging behind him a chain of suffering that sings with rusted iron and agony. The deathguard’s armor is swollen and obscene, its surface layered in peeling paint, rusted bronze, and wet sores. His helmet is crowned with a half-melted halo of bent iron, its purpose lost to madness. One gauntlet ends in a hooked butcher’s claw, slick with the grease of fresh harvest. His left hand holds a chain, a length of ancient steel dragging a string of still-living captives—limbless, eyeless, mouths sealed shut with fungal scabs. The weight of their misery carves a trail through the corpse-slick muck. His boots squelch down into the soil with each step, releasing clouds of spore and gas from hidden vents in his armor. Tubes connect his pauldron to a bile-bloated backpack, within which grotesque creatures gestate in amber fluid. One clawed limb occasionally tears through the glass to thrash in the open air before sinking back into embryonic stew. His bolter is strapped to his thigh but remains unused; it is rusted, fused shut, a relic of a time when his purpose was war. Now it is suffering. The trench walls weep blood, and on the horizon, titanic fungal spires crack the earth and belch plumes of diseased wind. With each breath, the plaguemarine grows heavier, more bloated, more grotesque. His chain tightens. His captives scream beneath their scabs. The gods are pleased.